FULFILMENT.

R RACHEL, who could not have dissembled if she had tried, appeared to be overwhelmed by Mr. Kingston's sudden death.

She wept herself ill, sitting now in his library chair, now in his office, now in his dressing-room, with mementoes of his domestic occupations and the homely companionship of nearly half-a-dozen wedded years around her; missing him from his accustomed place with a sense of having lost one of the best and kindest husbands that ever ungrateful woman had.

She allowed no one to touch his clothes and trinkets, or his books and pipes, or anything that he had used and cared for, but herself; and she cried over them, and kissed them, and laid them away in sacred drawers, to be treasured relics and heirlooms for her little Alfy, who was to be taught to reverence the memory of the tenderest of fathers, and to hand down to unborn generations the name and fame of the most accomplished and estimable of men.

She wandered about her great, silent house, in and out of the spacious rooms, making loving inventories of all the rich appointments, which had never had so much grace and beauty as now.

"He built this lovely place for me," she would say to herself, or perhaps say aloud to Beatrice, who was her chief companion at this time, "He had this carved dado made because I didn't like tiles; he gave me this Florentine cabinet on my twentieth birthday; he chose these hangings himself because he said they suited my complexion." Every bit of the house and its furniture was newly sanctified by some of these reminiscences.

She gathered together all his letters reverently—some had been waiting for his return from Mr. Lambert's, and were still unopened; and though many of them were addressed in the kind of handwriting that was especially calculated to arouse curiosity, she would not pry into his correspondence, nor allow anyone else to do so.

She would not read what he had evidently never intended her to read; she burnt them all without taking one of them out of its envelope, and then drove to the cemetery with a wreath of flowers for his grave.

"He was the best of husbands," she said, when to her own people she talked of him.

And Mrs. Hardy, who was truly afflicted by the family bereavement, was comforted to be able to repeat this tender formula to all the gossip of her own circle.

"He was the best of husbands. So fond of her to the last! Even when he was delirious you could see plainly his distress when she went out of the room, and his relief when she came back again. And she was so devoted! Such a thoroughly suitable marriage in every way—as if they had been made for each other! She is broken-hearted for the loss of him. And how he valued her he has plainly proved."

And here the gossips would smile decorously, and shake their heads, and say, "Yes, indeed." For they all understood what this allusion meant. It meant that Mr. Kingston had left the half of his great property absolutely at his young wife's disposal, and that she was the sole and unrestricted trustee of the rest, which was settled upon his son; which certainly did prove that he had valued her in the most conclusive manner.

But in a little while—a scandalously little while—indications that this young widow of twenty-five was not inconsolable for the loss of her elderly husband, became apparent to all but the most superficial observers.

It was not that she wore such very slight mourning—soft black silks and cashmeres that were the merest apology for weeds—for everybody knew that Mr. Kingston had had a horror of crape, and had been repeatedly heard to declare that no wife of his should wear it if he could help it.

Mrs. Hardy had explained that it was in deference to his wishes that she had defied custom in this respect; and, though there was a strong impression that she ought to have insisted on paying proper respect to his memory, in spite of him—and even that his protests against conventional suttee were never intended to include this particular case (as was very probable), but only indicated his personal distaste for harsh and unbecoming materials in ladies' apparel—the fact that it was growing the fashion to be lax and independent in these matters, saved her the verdict of the majority.

And it was not that she drove about, within two months of his death, with her veil turned back over her bonnet—in the case of a veil so transparent, it didn't make much difference whether it were up or down—leaving her youthful, lovely, rose-leaf face exposed to public view as heretofore.

It was not that she was heartless or unfeeling, or that she infringed the laws of good breeding and good taste in any distinctly and visible manner.

No one could quite say what it was, and yet everyone felt that the fact was sufficiently indicated that she was recovering from the shock of her sudden and terrible bereavement with unexpected, if not unbecoming, rapidity.

"You mark my words," somebody would say to somebody else, when Mrs. Kingston's carriage went flashing by, and she turned to bow to them, perhaps with her serene, sweet, grave smile; "you mark my words—that woman will be married again by this time next year. I don't know what makes me think so, but I am sure of it. There is a look in her face as if she were going to make herself happy."

The person addressed, being a man, would probably reply that the odd thing would be if she did not make herself happy (and generally he suggested that by remaining a widow she would be most likely to secure that object), with youth and beauty, leisure and liberty, and ten thousand a year to do what she liked with; and that he sincerely hoped she would be.

Being a woman, she was more likely than not to look after Rachel and her carriage with solemn severity, and wonder how it was that that poor, dear, foolish man never could see that the girl cared nothing at all about him, and had only married him for his money.

Mrs. Hardy was becoming aware of this state of public opinion with respect to her niece's conduct—which had been so extremely proper hitherto—and was herself conscious of the subtle change that had taken place, and was uneasily wondering what it indicated, when one day Rachel came to see her.

It was eleven o'clock on a warm summer morning, just before Christmas; and the young widow walked over through the gardens and the back gate, wearing a light, black cambric dress and a shady straw hat, looking—Mrs. Hardy thought, glancing up at her from her writing-table in a cool corner of the now transformed drawing-room—unusually well and strikingly young and girlish.

"Well, my dear, how are you? And where's Alfy? Have you not brought him with you?"

Rachel put her arm over her aunt's shoulder, and kissed her affectionately.

"I haven't brought him to-day, because I wanted to have a little quiet talk," she said. "Are you very busy, auntie?"

Mrs. Hardy was busy—she always was, from breakfast until lunch time; but she was impressed by a certain gentle gravity in Rachel's voice and manner, and understood that there was something of importance to be attended to. So she gathered up her papers, told her visitor to take off her hat and sit down, and inquired anxiously what was the matter.

"There is nothing the matter," said Rachel, with a little hesitation. "But, auntie dear, I am going to—do something, and I would not do it without telling you first."

She sat upon the edge of a chair, and leaned her arms on a corner of the writing-table; and she looked into the elder woman's face with wistful, longing, pleading eyes.

Mrs. Hardy had faint, instinctive premonitions.

"Well, my dear," she replied a little brusquely, "I shall be glad to advise you to the best of my power. But you are your own mistress now, you know." Then after a little pause, she said anxiously, "What is it you are going to do?"

"Auntie," faltered Rachel, "auntie—you know all about Mr. Dalrymple?"

"Rachel—my dear—you don't mean to say—! And your poor husband not six months in his grave!"

"Not yet," said Rachel, suddenly becoming composed and collected. "Though I do not believe that I ought to put it off. But presently, auntie—as soon as you would think it right—I want to marry Mr. Dalrymple. And in the meantime he is waiting for me to send him a message—he has asked me to write—we want to have the comfort of some sort of recognised engagement, if it is ever so quiet——"

"Oh, Rachel, don't ask me to have anything to do with such a thing! Only think what poor Graham would say if he could know! And he left little Alfy in your hands—and he left all that money to you—little thinking what you would do with it!"

"He knew—he knew," said Rachel. "He has already sanctioned it. Dear, good husband! He left me the money without any conditions if I married again, and he knew I should do this. It was understood between us when he died. Aunt Elizabeth, I think he wished to make reparation to Roden and me. Don't you wish it, too? Only think, it is six years—six whole years—that poor Roden has been lonely in Queensland, without any brightness or comfort in his life; and, though he has loved me just the same, he has never attempted to do—what you would not have wished him to do—all that time. It is six years this very week, Aunt Elizabeth, since he sent Mr. Gordon down to you."

"And if he had come himself," said Mrs. Hardy, passionately, beginning to break down and cry, "I should not have let him see you—I would not have allowed you to have him. Oh, child, child! when you have grown-up daughters to look after and manage for, you will understand that I tried to do my best for you—you will think less hardly of me then."

Rachel jumped up from her chair, and kneeling down flung her warm young arms about the sobbing woman.

"My own auntie," she exclaimed fondly, "if I could think hardly of you I should be ashamed to live. I know you tried to do your best for me—of course I know it! It is always a mistake to deceive people, but I deceived you, too, not telling you all I had done. I know you were right to keep me away from him knowing only what you knew. If he had been wicked, as you thought, and I had had it all my own way, what would have become of me? But now—now that you know he is good——"

"Ah, my dear, I don't know it! Remember that dreadful duel! And how can you tell that he doesn't want you now for your money? He has none of his own, and you have a great fortune that he could squander as he liked. Everyone will say that it was for the sake of your money."

"It would sooner have been that the money would have kept him from me," said Rachel softly. "Once I was afraid of that. But afterwards I was ashamed that I could have any fears. We understand each other better. Aunt Elizabeth, Beatrice knows that he is good—Beatrice believes in him—and my dear Graham gave me leave to make him happy. Won't you consent to it, too?"

"Well, if poor Graham gave you leave it is not for me to interfere, I suppose. But you won't let anyone know you are engaged so soon?"

"It need only be known to ourselves, auntie."

"And you'll promise me you won't get married again under the year, at the very earliest?"

"Yes, dear Aunt Elizabeth, I will promise you that. If I can go and stay at Adelonga for a little, and take Alfy——"

"Is he down at the Digbys?"

"Yes, auntie."

"Perhaps that will be the best plan," said Mrs. Hardy, sighing. "It is a quiet place, and out of the way, if only Lucilla doesn't gossip about it."